The Asylum Incident
by MissScorp
Summary: What happens the day before the Joker takes over Arkham Asylum? Does Harley Quinn ever think about leaving Mr. J? Speaking of Joker, why has he written a love poem to Batman? How does Batman feel when he discovers said poem? And who is the new doctor at the Asylum and what exactly does Jonathan Crane want with her?
1. Harlequin's Regret

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but for the general concept and theme.

* * *

_The night before the Arkham Asylum incident..._

She watched the man lift his hand to the doc's cheek. It was only the slightest of movements, merely a subtle turn of his wrist really, but it was enough that it allowed him to graze his knuckles along the curve of that silky flesh.

She swore that she could feel those knuckles skimming along her skin, electrifying dead nerve endings and filling her with a longing sensation that had almost been forgotten.

And she ached as a tidal wave of memories crashed within her breast, unleashing a torrent of mental snapshots depicting lovers past who had touched _her _as if she was a delicate flower.

She watched as the man used his fingers to oh-so-gently cup the doc's chin. Those long and graceful dactyls barely closed upon that creamy flesh, but it was enough of a grip that he was able to lift her head up and peer down into the doc's eyes.

She found herself thinking back upon the one man-the only man in fact-who had ever looked at _her _with that tenderness, with that burning desire and need, with all that _love _shining in his eyes.

And she felt a deep yearning form in her heart, a type of craving to look in her puddin's sparklin' verdant gaze and see it burning with the emotions that lived in this man's scorching blue gaze.

She watched as he lowered his head and slowly took the doc's lips with his own. There was no mashing of lips here, or grinding of teeth against tender flesh, oh no. This was most definitely a lover's kiss, meant to stir the soul and flutter the heart.

She found she could hardly remember the last time when a man had kissed her and it wasn't meant as a reminder of what her place was, as a method of humiliation, or as a revolting token of appreciation.

And it made her hunger to again feel that flame, that slow burn that began deep in the belly before spreading outwards to consume her in a white hot burst of want and need.

But she'd never again have a lover touch her as if she was made of the finest glass.

Or convey his undying love and affection for her while staring deeply into her eyes.

Or warm her heart and soul with a kiss so sweet and gentle that it made her want to cry.

Because she'd given all that up when she'd allowed herself to fall hopelessly in love with a murdering slime ball. She'd forsaken her happiness, her wants and needs, her own identity in order to become what he wanted her to become: his Harlequin. By placing her heart as well as her body into the hands of this pasty-faced sociopath, she'd ensured she would never again know the bittersweet taste of love or the wondrous rapture of romance. She was nothing but a sex toy to Mr. J, a dolly that he could get rid of once he'd grown tired of playing with her.

A dolly he had thrown away countless times before.

The arrow that pierced the Harlequin's cold heart was one that was poisoned with regret.

_How could I have let this happen_? she wondered as she lifted her hands to wipe away the moisture that rolled slowly down her painted face. _Even I don't understand _how_ exactly this happened, _she thought with a trace of bitterness_._

_I wasn't a doormat when I first met him. I wasn't a big lump of clay just waiting for him to come and mold. I came from a relatively normal family, as functional as any other family manages to be really. I was well-educated, independent, on the road to success. There'd been men in my life, some that I wasn't as serious about as I was Guy, but all were normal, healthy relationships. But then I met Mr. J and something went wrong. Because suddenly there I was, manipulated and trapped within this mad love affair. Allowing myself to be humiliated and degraded._

_And _abused.

And who was to blame for every bit of her unhappiness, her misery and self-hatred? a voice in her head asked. Batman? She laughed softly, a low, keening sound that drew the attention of the doc and the man who was with her. She couldn't blame the Bats. Not when it was her that had so completely ruined her own life. And not when every time she turned around that it was the Bats who was offering her the way out of this madness.

_How often has the Bats said he'd help me and I just laughed in his face? Or responded by unleashing a barrage of bullets upon him_? she asked herself. Hundreds. Thousands. She wasn't sure. All she knew was that she'd denied him at every turn, kicked him in the teeth and tossed his offer back in his face. _And he still offers to help me_.

She wasn't sure which of them the crazy one was:

_Batman_ for even after all the refusals and rejections; or _her_ for always turning his offers of help down.

She was beginning to believe that the answer was _her_.

She glanced up and saw that the doc and her boyfriend-and damned if he didn't look a little like that Robin her Mr. J thought he beat to death with a crowbar - were approaching where she sat waiting to be escorted back to her cell. His arm was around the doc's waist, his hand resting lightly upon the curve of her hip. She bit her lip, tasted fear and shame. And a terrible wreath of envy. Oh, how she wished that there was a man such as this one to love her! How happy she'd be if she had a man like this! A man that was tall and darkly handsome. Who was surrounded by an aura of sophisticated danger; dripped with enigmatic intrigue. A man, she decided, hazarding a look into that electric blue gaze, who was capable of touching his woman without hurting her, of loving her without needing to humiliate her, of holding her without breaking her.

"You'se a real lucky gal, doc," she said when the two passed her on their way towards the exit. At first she figured they would just continue on past her, ignoring her as most of the orderlies, guards and Asylum docs tended to do. But then the doc stopped and turned, enveloping her within a gaze that sparked with warmth and compassion, and which was ripe with sympathy and understanding.

"You're right, Miss Quinn," she said in a voice like velvet. Soft and smooth. "I _am_ lucky. My man might have a few quirks and kinks to him, and a helluva temper at times. But he's _never _beat me."

"And I never will," the man stated in a voice that was like single-malt whiskey. It skittered along Harley's nerve endings, fraying them further. "Real men don't need to get their rocks off by knockin' their woman around."

The doc crouched down so she could look beyond the girlish pigtails tipped in florescent pink and the garishly made up face to the fractured woman hidden beneath. She knew about the bruises that the powder was hiding, that were lurking below that naughty nurse getup, and which were imprinted upon this woman's very soul. She stared into those tortured aqua pools and felt a kinship with this woman that went beyond them merely being women, the same age, or doctors in the field of Psychology. And said;

"I cannot make you decide when enough is enough, Harley. And I can't make you admit that you want out. You've gotta do that for yourself. But," she reached into her jacket pocket and took out a business card that she pressed into her hand. "If you _ever _reach the point where you've had enough and wanna ask someone for help? You call me. Day or night. Rain or shine. Call," she smiled gently. "I will come. And I _will _help."

_I will come. And I will help_. They were the same words the Bats always said to her. Words she always refuted, scoffed at, reacted to with violence. But looking at that card, seeing the name that was imprinted upon it and then looking up into that kind and understanding face, Harley realized just how easy it'd be to reach out-to finally ask someone to help her get away from the monster she'd devoted so much of herself too. But there was still niggles of suspicion tugging at her, and a small kernel of doubt deep within her that begged her to ask this woman one, single question: _why_?

"I gotsa question for ya doc," the broken woman said in a small voice. "How come you're being so nice ta me? I ain't never been nothin' but trouble for ya's."

"Because," was said on a sigh. "I know what it is like to find yourself trapped in this kind of hell. And to find yourself being abused by the very devil, himself."

"You's?"

Harley heard the disbelief in her voice, and even while it shamed her, she did not apologize for it. It just didn't seem possible to her that this pampered princess could have ever been shattered by physical abuse.

"Believe it or not, Harley," the doc said quietly. "But I know all about the pain and the agony, the fear and the desperation, the shame and the humiliation that you're feeling right now. Because for thirteen years I was locked within an opulent prison that was a never ending circle of abuse. My childhood was one where every night was a new nightmare and every morning coated in fresh blood and tears."

"How'd you get out?"

_How'd you survive_? was what she really wanted to ask.

"I got out the night that my father finally went too far and murdered my mother," was the soft reply.

Shock washed over Harley like a bucket of cold water. She stared into those green eyes, read the open sincerity and the heartfelt honesty. And saw that this woman knew, understood. _And she ain't judging me for it._

Tears threatened. Were ruthlessly rejected. She'd cried for that clown enough. She'd suffered enough at his hands. She told herself that she only had to tell this woman that she was ready, that she was done, and it would be all over. She'd be whisked away to a place where there was no more pain, no more humiliation and degradation, no more regrets. And no more...

"Th...thanks," she said slowly. "But..."

"You're not ready," the doc said, nodding slightly.

"No."

The word was a shame-laced whisper. But the doc understood. She didn't like it, Harley could see that, but she understood. And accepted that this was how it was going to be for the moment.

"You will be ready one day," she said as she rose to her feet. "And when you are, I will be there to help."

"Thank you," Harley said again.

And she found that she meant it. She was appreciative of everything that the doc had said, of everything that she'd offered. It was so rare for anybody in this place to show her so much as an ounce of compassion. And even less that she'd find herself almost willing to accept it.

"You're welcome." The doc then turned to one of the guards that was standing nearby. "Hey Frank, can you escort Miss Quinn back to her cell?"

"Certainly, Doctor Kean."

And so Harley was led through the Intensive Treatment Center to where her cell was located, deep within the bowels of Arkham Asylum. As she walked she thought over everything she'd seen and heard that night. And came to the conclusion that she definitely deserved better than a selfish, narcissistic, murderous, psychopathic clown.

_No more_, she vowed as she entered her cell. _I'm done with being his punching bag, his sex toy, his Harley. I'm through with it, and with him._ But then she saw the rose-red of course, waiting on her pillow. There was a handwritten note next to it that read simply;

_See you tonight!_

_J._

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she snatched up the rose and clutched it to her chest. And the business card, the doc and her newfound resolve were all forgotten in less than ten seconds.


	2. The Infatuation of Dr Jonathan Crane

It was after seven in the evening and Arkham Asylum was ablaze with an obscene amount of activity. Guards and orderlies and other staff members rushed about, helping the Asylum doctors to process the influx of patients arriving from Blackgate Penitentiary after a mysterious fire left hundreds of inmates in need of temporary rehousing. The arrival of the prisoners was causing a massive upheaval to the Asylum's normal routine.

Dr. Jonathan Crane listened to the guttural screams and animalistic curses, intermixed with the feeble and humble pleas of the damned, through his cell wall. Sitting cross-legged upon his cot, a large tome open on his lap, he was busy contemplating the thin, balding man who stood on the other side of his cell door, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"I am surprised, Nichols. Are you not concerned with the... repercussions of refusing to do what it is that I ask of you?"

The slithery innuendo that coated Crane's voice sent tingles of alarms dancing along Nichols spine.

"I cannot do you any more favors, Crane," Dr. Albus Nichols said desperately. "The Warden is beginning to get suspicious as it is."

"Oh, my good doctor," Crane said softly, pleasantly. "The favor that I want to ask of you has nothing to do with my research. Nor will it, I assure you, cause our dear Warden a moment's concern."

What Nichols heard was that refusal meant his shameful secret would be exposed to the world. He could not afford that happening and Crane knew it. The doctor sighed as the invisible bars fell down around him, trapping him yet again in the prison of Crane's control.

"What is it that you want, Crane?"

"I just want you to suggest that another Doctor should take over as my primary doctor."

Dr. Nichols was surprised by the request. It was so unlike any of Crane's other requests. And made him suspicious instantly.

"You..." he said slowly. "You want me to tell the Warden that I think someone else should become your doctor?"

"Yes."

"But, why?"

Crane unfolded his lanky frame and scuttled over to the cell door.

"We have a doctor that is on temporary loan from the GCPD," he said. "A young woman whose grandfather was the renowned Neuropsychiatrist, Dr. Matthew Berkeley Sr.," Crane crooned the name almost reverently. "And I wish for _this_ doctor to become _my _doctor."

Nichols recognized Dr. Berkeley's name and remembered him as being the creator of a powerful neural agent that he'd called _Inceptive. _That Crane was bringing up Dr. Berkeley could only mean one thing.

"You want Dr. Kean to take over as your doctor," Nichols said with a slight frown. "Because she will have access to her grandfather's notes about _Inceptive_."

"Of course. But my good doctor," Crane smiled. "I also desire the company of Dr. Kean."

Nichols sighed. And reminded himself about how protesting would only risk his own dark secrets exposed. And he couldn't chance that happening.

"And what do you want me to say to the Warden in order to convince him to assign Dr. Kean to your case? She doesn't exactly work with patients of your caliber."

"Just suggest to the Warden that you think, given Dr. Kean's extensive background with spectral disorders, that she should be the one handling my treatment."

"What it is that you plan on doing with Dr. Kean once you acquire the notes on the _Inceptive_ formula?" the doctor asked.

"You really shouldn't ask me that," Crane answered. "Though, I suppose that you knowing does not really affect my plans..."

"What do you have planned?"

"I merely plan to offer the doctor the most prestigious position that she could ever hope to aspire to."

"And what position is that?"

Crane's lips curled, and his limpid blue eyes shone with a hint of the madness lurking beneath the surface.

"Why, I'm going to make the lovely doctor my Mistress of Fear."

* * *

Arkham Island, which housed the _Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane_, was at the end of a miles long stretch of road that was lined with trees that moved like skeletons in the gentle breeze blowing. It was vacant of any other type of vegetation, deprived of anything to relieve the eerie chill that snaked across the fractured pavement. Raya hated whenever she made the drive out to the asylum because she always felt as if she was driving the highway to hell. Which was why she tended to work for the asylum on a needs only basis. Her choice was not only driven by her dislike for this miles long byway, but also because of her distaste for the asylum itself. Arkham Asylum was an emotionally taxing, cognitively demanding environment where there was a constant need to keep a close watch upon the vast population housed within its cavernous walls. Taking care of the inmates on a daily basis was a daunting, and frequently impossible task.

The asylum's guards, doctors, and various other staff all kept a close eye upon their uniquely diverse colony via closed-circuit cameras that were stationed above every door in the entire complex, by making constant patrols of the numerous wards, and by carefully monitoring every form of communication the inmates were allowed. Even with all the technological modifications that Warden Sharp had made to the asylum's security system, there was still a large number of the population who required even more strict measures in order to keep them from escaping. But then there were some, like the Joker, who could not be kept locked away in one of the Ashlyn's deepest, darkest holes no matter what provisions were put in place. _Joker breaks out of Arkham almost as often as Scorpion breaks out of the Netherrealm,_ she thought. _Only the spectre doesn't go on a murdering spree just for the sheer shits and giggles of it_.

Arkham Asylum loomed larger than life in front of her, its every pointed arch, ribbed vault, and flying buttress wer made even more ominous, set as they were among the skeletal figures that danced in the twilight. Arkham Island, and the Asylum grounds themselves were like something straight out of a Tim Burton movie. The only thing missing was Johnny Depp. The wheels of her car spewed gravel as she drove through the massive iron gates. She saw a balding doctor, replete with white lab coat and horn-rimmed spectacles, waiting for her on the front steps of the Intensive Treatment building. She parked and stepped from the car.

"You are Dr. Nichols?"

"That's right, uh—Dr. Kean. I'm Doctor Albus Nichols."

She made her way towards the steps that led up to the entrance of the forbidding building. Dr. Nichols watched her, and felt guilt cramping deep in his belly for what he was doing. Dr. Raya Kean was much younger than he'd thought she was, and much too sweet and innocent for someone of Crane's demented caliber. But the weight of his dark secret being discovered was looming over him, and he knew he had no choice. It was give into Crane's demand or risk social disgrace and ruin. He offered the young doctor a bland smile.

"I realize that this is a highly unusual request…"

"Considering that the request was made by Dr. Crane and not yourself?" Raya slanted a sideways look at the doctor. "It really is not all that unusual."

"You…?" he stammered.

"Knew?" she nodded. "Yes. Dr. Crane has had his previous doctors all make formal requests to have me assigned as his personal doctor. I have been waiting for when he'd have you make his next one, in fact."

"But..." Nichols said slowly. "If you knew that Crane was the one who had made the request..."

"Then why did I come?" Her teeth flashed for a moment in the shadows. "Because I want to make sure that Dr. Crane is tucked away where he belongs. Shall we?"

Nichols nodded and together they stepped into the Intensive Treatment Lobby. It was after eight and the lobby was ablaze with activity. Guards and orderlies and other staff members were rushing about, helping process the influx of inmates transferred here after a mysterious fire at Blackgate had left hundreds in need of temporary rehousing.

Raya had been helping with the rehousing when the Warden phoned to tell her of the doctor's request to have her replace him as Crane's primary caregiver. Inmates yowled and made disparaging and disgusting sexual remarks as they traveled the main transverse corridor to the elevators. Nichols glanced at the young doctor, his eyes wary.

"You do realize that Doctor Crane is considered a level 8 patient?"

"Yes."

Nichols stopped in the middle of a hallway and turned to face her.

"It does not bother you that you are, essentially, heading into the lion's den? And that there is nobody here to protect you should things get out of hand?"

Exactly why he was risking public humiliation for this small slip of a girl, he did not know. But it felt wrong to him, sacrificing someone whose only crime was being the granddaughter of a man with the brilliant mind of Matthew Berkeley Sr.

"I am well aware that I have no protection should things get out of hand," Raya said slowly. "But I am assured that all will be well."

It was clear that the doctor was trying to dissuade her from speaking with Crane. The question Raya asked herself now, was why? What did Crane have planned that this man was trying to warn her about. Nichols gestured to a set of stairs.

"You know that the control room is just up that set of stairs there. We could..."

Raya shook her head. "I need to see Dr. Crane in his cell, Dr. Nichols. I need to speak with him personally."

"But the monitors..."

"Are frequently fooled by the asylum's very creative and most clever inmates. And Jonathan Crane, as mentally imbalanced as he is, is not only exceptionally creative and clever, but incredibly dangerous as well."

"Which is why," Nichols said. "We keep him under twenty-four surveillance. We do not take any chances with Crane."

"A very wise thing to do considering the doctor's propensity for using his Fear toxins upon the asylum's guards and staff."

Raya made a slight _after-you _motion with her hand, and Nichols moved on towards the thick steel doors that formed the portal to what was supposed to be an environment as secure as Fort Knox. The labyrinthine corridors and hallways of Arkham Asylum were enough to disturb Raya's sense of direction. Occasionally, they passed isolated habitats, home to the more dangerous and extreme members of the asylum's population. Raya was about to ask Nichols about how much farther it was when she spied Crane's octagon shaped glass cell at the end of the corridor.

Though still decorated in sterile hospital white, the cell was nowhere near as spartan as a few of those they passed. Clear plastic bookshelves circled one side of the room and were filled, as she expected them to be, with huge psychology textbooks, hundreds of notepads and plain yellow folders covered with sticky notes, and a smattering of select works of fiction-mostly classics but with a few surprising tomes of poetry.

Dr. Jonathan Crane was standing in front of one of the bookshelves, caressing one of the thick tomes with one long finger. He turned at the sound of their approach, his large, pale eyes only mildly curious behind the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. Though nowhere as pale as the Joker, Crane's skin was still the color of fresh cream. It made his thick shock of dark hair stand out in contrast. Raya always found herself taken aback by the extreme differences of Crane's two personalities. When the Scarecrow was not in control, Jonathan Crane was a quiet, studious kind of man who was unfailingly polite, uncharacteristically pleasant, and so proper that he reminded her of Alfred Pennyworth.

That did not excuse nor in any way make light of the atrocities that his other side had committed. A brilliant psychiatrist and chemist, Crane had focused his research upon the study of fear, particularly phobic fears and their causes. His doctoral thesis on the subject was still considered the definitive analysis on the psychology of fear. She'd studied his research as an undergraduate, and could admit that she'd felt a certain fascination while reading a number of the articles that he'd written on the subject.

Crane's scholarly ways and gaunt physique added to his image of harmless researcher. But the image was misleading. Much like the Joker, Crane had surprising strength and stamina for one who appeared so frail. He was hyper mobile, capable of contorting his body without any apparent pain or difficulty. She'd seen video footage of him in his Scarecrow persona contort his skeletal frame into positions and poses that were startling to behold. And when he combined those supple distortions with that hideous gas mask and those toxins he so favored, he became something utterly terrifying to his victims.

"Dr. Kean?" his soft voice questioned. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Raya stepped into a pool of light at the entrance of his cell.

"As if you don't know just why it is that I am here, Dr. Crane."

"Ah yes, my _request_ to have you replace Dr. Nichols as my personal doctor." He smiled, looking almost boyish. "You really cannot blame me for wanting to have someone whom is as well versed as you are in spectral disorders handling my case. Nor can you rightly blame me for desiring someone professional to overlook my care. You _are_ aware that there is a severe lack of professionalism and ethical practice going on here at the asylum, aren't you?"

"No," Raya said. His sly, manipulative tone was not lost upon her. "I was not aware that there was a lack of either professionalism or ethical practice occurring here at the asylum."

"Oh, yes," Crane simpered as he shuffled closer to the clear barrier. His voice dropped down to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't you know that quite a few inhuman experiments have been performed upon the inmates by one of Akham's most prolific doctors?" Crane's gaze flicked to Nichols, but he continued speaking to her. "Is that not true, Dr.?"

Nichols felt his face blanch white at the implication prevalent in Crane's silky tone. Raya heard it as well and turned to stare at the doctor, one brow lifted questioningly. She'd heard what Crane was saying about the experiments and was appalled. But it was what the doctor _wasn't_ saying, as well as Nichols' reaction, that held her attention at that moment. _Interesting_, she thought as she swung her gaze back and forth between the two men.

Crane looked like a little boy bursting at the seams with a secret to tell, while Nichols was sweating bullets and dancing from foot to foot. _Clearly, the secret is about Nichols_. Just what kind of secret was dark enough that a man like Albus Nichols would risk his entire career and reputation to keep hidden she did not know though. But she had a couple of guesses.

It was clear that he'd already gone to great lengths in order to keep Crane quiet. Suddenly, how Crane had not only managed to get his hands on the chemicals needed to brew a new batch of his Fear toxin, but was able to make his last escape from the asylum made all the sense in the world. _We'd assumed that he had had help_. Now it was confirmed just who his helper was. She made a note to pass that particular piece of information onto Bruce once she left the asylum. For now...

"Is what Dr. Crane saying true, Doctor Nichols?" she asked.

Nichols breathed a silent sigh of relief. His secret, it seemed, was still safe. 'For now'. He nodded, said slowly; "I...am afraid so, Dr. Kean."

"And you know this because?"

"Because there have been a number of inmates that have been brought into the medical ward after suffering some type of allergic reaction to a toxin they'd been injected with."

She made a note to also mention these experiments when she got back to the cave. No matter what the men and women imprisoned within these walls had done, they deserved humane and ethical treatment. That they were not offended and appalled her on every level.

"And do you know which of the doctors is performing these _experiments_?"

Nichols looked at the young woman, nodded.

"Dr. Young is the one who is performing the experiments."

Raya nodded, looked back at the lanky figure that was still behind the glass.

"Well, it looks as if you will be getting a new doctor assigned to you after all." She saw delight as well as a hint of that underlying aberration creep into those lucent eyes. "But it will not be me," she saw him frown, dark brows drawing together over his sharp nose as he gazed at her in annoyed disbelief. "Good evening, Dr. Crane."

Raya turned and began making her way back the way they'd come. She had just turned the corner into the main corridor when she heard Crane's soft, plaintive voice twist into the shrill cackle that belonged to the Scarecrow:

"You have not heard the last of me, Dr. Kean!"

* * *

Raya found herself in the middle of pandemonium the moment that she re-entered the Intensive Treatment Lobby. Uniformed police officers and Asylum security were strong arming a group of Blackgate prisoners into one of the empty holding cells. A scuffle soon ensued between the opposing factions and escalated as more prisoners and guards got involved. Hands grabbed her and yanked her out of the way a split second before she would have been plowed into by an Arkham guard that was sent sailing backwards following a meaty right hook to his jaw. Other guards swarmed the face painted behemoth, hitting him with stun batons and Billy clubs.

"What in the Sam Hill are you doing here?"

Raya turned to gaze upon a man with glasses, a thick mustache, a full head of shockingly white hair, wearing a rumpled white dress shirt with a button down navy blue vest and matching trousers, and a striped red tie. James Gordon, the acting Police Commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department, world-class police detective, close ally and friend of Batman, father of Barbara Gordon, and uncle as well as surrogate dad number _one_. _What am I doing here? What are you doing here_? she silently asked. But Raya was wise enough to not answer his question with her own. She'd learned a long time ago that _that_ kinda cutesyness only got her into even hotter waters than she was in already.

"Crane made his monthly request for me to take over as his doctor," she told him.

"And that necessitated you coming out here to the asylum, why?"

"I wanted to tell him no in person," she said cheerfully.

Gordon sighed. And ignored her cheekiness.

"How many of these requests has he made at this point? Twelve? Thirteen?"

Her teeth flashed for a moment. "Sixteen."

Gordon shook his head; grunted softly. "I applaud the doctor for his persistence. However," he took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. She was going to object to what he said next, cite it as him going into overprotective dad-mode. Well, he thought, there just wasn't a switch that he could flip that turned off _dad-mode_. And he was _her_ dad as much as he was Barbara's. "I don't want you coming out here to see Crane alone."

"I cannot ignore a request from Sharp," she said. "I am a member of Arkham's staff, and I have patients that I treat here. I do have to answer his summons."

Gordon took a minute to fish around in his pockets for a rag to wipe the lenses of his glasses with before saying; "I know that you have patients and responsibilities here at the asylum, Raya. And that you cannot ignore when Sharp summons you. But stick to your patients and avoid Crane. Because even as mentally imbalanced as he is, Crane is still exceptionally creative and clever, and incredibly dangerous."

"I know that Crane is dangerous, but…"

"And," he continued over the start of what he'd knew would be a splendidly crafted line of reasoning meant to justify why she was perfectly capable of facing Crane on her own. "While I won't ask that you bring Batman with you the next time that you come out here..." he trailed off.

She smiled and brushed a kiss to that whiskered cheek; breathed in the familiar combination of tobacco and aftershave and felt a flood of memories-all good, assail her.

"You realize that that's _dad-lingo_ for 'I am not gonna ask that you outright do this, but I am gonna strongly hint about how it's what I really want you to do.'"

He humphed. "It may sound like _dad-lingo_ to you, young lady, but..."

Gordon was prohibited from finishing his statement when another fight broke out in the hallway, this time between three hulking henchmen in orange prison garb and select members of the Joker's crew. They moved into the control room as Asylum security and officers swarmed in to bring the mob back into some semblance of order. Raya stood watching the discombobulated commotion going on, feeling pin pricks of unease curl in her belly as well as tingle along the base of her spine.

"I see that it is shaping up to be an interesting night," she said quietly.

"Joker's invaded City Hall and is holding the Mayor hostage and left me to juggle SWAT teams, the media, the re-housing of Blackgate's prisoners and Batman. Yeah," Gordon shook his head. "It's shaping up to be a helluva night."

Raya glanced over at him. "I think Joker has something planned for this evening."

"Joker always has something planned," Gordon said dryly.

"I know he does. Yet something about tonight just doesn't feel right. That fire at Blackgate was too conveniently… _arranged_ for my taste."

Gordon turned to look at the plethora of the clown's crew currently in the holding cells. There were more than four dozen down there easily. And an amount that was equal to that which had already been processed and taken below. The sheer number of thugs that had been transported here to the Asylum could just be an odd coincidence.

Except…

"What are you thinking?"

Eyes as hard as Japanese jade shifted to study the thugs howling and yipping like a pack of wild wolves.

"I'm thinking that the Joker has been manipulating each chain of events that has occurred since his escape last week," she said quietly. "I'm thinking that the weekend bank robberies were his way of getting more members of his gang housed within Blackgate."

"And the fire his way of getting those gang members moved here to Arkham."

She nodded; her expression grim. "Precisely."

"But what's the reason? What's he hoping to prove with all this?"

"I don't think he intends to _prove_ anything." Her voice took on a bitter edge. "This is just a game to that pasty-faced freak. It's always some type of a game with him, in fact. And we both know how Batman is the playmate that the son of a bitch likes to play these infernal games with."

"Which explains why he took the Mayor hostage. He wanted Batman to come for him." He shook his head before another thought occurred. "You're figuring that his capture is the signal for the games to begin."

"Yes, I am."

World-weary blue eyes turned to gaze at the animals locked in those iron cages. _How many games has he played with that pasty-faced freak_? He silently wondered. _A hundred? A thousand? When will the games end_? Gordon realized that he knew that answer already. And it caused a pang of alarm to resonate from deep within his chest.

"You go and help Batman," he told her. "Keep him and that damn clown away from Arkham."

The ghost of a smile curved her lips. "Is that _dad-lingo_ for 'I don't like it, but I'm sending out the other you because I don't have any other options'?"

"That's _boss-lingo_ telling you to go help stop the madman before he can begin playing whatever damn game it is that he's got concocted." But his face softened. "And it's _dad-lingo_ for 'I trust you, but be careful.'"

She kissed his cheek. "I'll be careful," she assured him.

* * *

"My, but the good doctor is proving to be much harder to woo than I had anticipated."

Crane stood in the center of his cell, hands folded at his waist. Standing in front of the cell door, Nichols took in the doctor's calm, slightly puzzled demeanor. It was a vast difference from the shrill madman of moments before. Not for the first time (and certainly not the last), Nichols found himself chilled by the rapid-fire way in which Dr. Jonathan Crane and the Scarecrow could trade places. Not even Dr. Jekyll could trade places with the diabolical Mr. Hyde in quite the seamless way that Crane traded places with the Scarecrow.

"What does a schizophrenic monster like you know about wooing a woman like Dr. Kean?"

Crane laughed softly. "What's this, Nichols? Have you developed a bit of a _tendre_ for my intended?"

"Intended?" Nichols spluttered. "You're mad if you think that a woman like Dr. Kean will ever agree to marry a man like you!"

"Oh, but a man like me has ways of convincing someone to do just what it is that I desire them too."

There was a dark and wet undercurrent to his voice that said that the monster lurking below the doctor's conscious was but waiting to make another appearance. That moist hiss not only warned the beleaguered man about his own precarious situation with Crane, but specified just how the demented fiend planned to convince the girl to accept his _suit_. He just couldn't stand it, he just could not stand there and allow somebody with such a kind and giving heart to become little more than Crane's version of Harley Quinn.

"I will go to the Warden if I have too, Crane. I will tell Sharp about everything-getting the materials that you needed to make a new batch of Fear toxin, acquiring research subjects for you to perform your tests upon, helping you to escape, all of it."

Crane, watching his expression, smiled.

"I notice how nowhere in your heroic little speech do you specify exactly why you did those things for me, Doctor." He simpered. "Just how do you think that a woman like Dr. Kean is going to feel when I tell her that her erstwhile protector has an erotic proclivity for sexual contact with corpses? And what do you think that she will do when she learns that all those _unexplained_ deaths of the last six weeks were committed in order for you to have a fresh supply of bodies to pick and choose from?"

Nichols felt his world tilt; crumble. As much as he hated it, Crane still held all the most important cards. Revealing his sexual propensity as well as who was the cause for all the unexplained deaths lately was like a 7-card stud hand that had Kings and Queens showing on the table. Crane still held three facedown cards. And one of those cards would determine whether the hand was a full boat or merely two-pair. Either one damning. Neither one something he wanted revealed on the flop. Defying Crane at the expense of having his biggest secret exposed would leave his reputation, as well as that of his family's, in ruin. He couldn't chance it. _I'm sorry, Doctor_, he thought. _I have no choice_.

"You win, Crane. You win. I will do whatever it is that you ask of me."

"Oh, I knew that you would," Crane said cheerfully. "Now, release me from this infernal cell. I have special plans for this evening and need to don my vestments before my Mistress of honor arrives."

With a heavy heart, Nichols unlocked the cell's thick, glass door. Then he stepped back and watched as the Grand Master of Fear stepped into the dark corridor, free to rein terror upon anyone unlucky enough to cross his path.

* * *

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but for the characters Raya Kean/Fenix, and Dr. Albus Nichols and the general concept of my theme and storyline, which includes the neural agent I am calling _Inceptive. _


	3. Harlequin Love Poem

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the poem, and the general concept of my story and theme.

* * *

He giggled while he wrote it.

And cried as he giggled; fat balls of wet that rolled down his pale and hollow cheeks and which pooled in the cracks and crevices of his hideously painted mouth.

Tonight was going to be the grandest of games...

Oh, it was going to be so much fun!

He'd gone to an insanely huge amount of trouble to ensure that everything was going to be perfect.

It had to be...

Or else there was going to be _hell _to pay.

But, he could not afford his King finding him.

Not just yet, at least.

So he wrote him this _little_ poem.

It was really nothing but a tiny token of his undying affection and adoration.

Just his way of reminding his Bats about how he _really_ felt.

_Oh, he'll be so appreciative to get my present_, he thinks as he pins it on a poster of himself- with a Bat-shaped paperclip no less! _Oh, won't he be impressed at my thoughtfulness_? A cruel twist twitches those scarlet lips into what could be called a smile.

Not that one can really tell the difference- he's always smiling after all.

Always tellin' a joke.

Always ready to deliver another stunning performance...

And tonight was to be his biggest show!

But there were things that still needing doing...

Guests he'd yet to invite.

So he needed to keep his Bats busy.

_And what better way to keep somebody busy than by having them read something that you wrote_? he silently wondered with a small giggle.

His poem would provide them with a fascinating topic of discussion for when they met later on.

Oh, he almost couldn't wait for the party to begin!

But the anticipation was half the fun.

Which was why he was placing this note in Harley's old office.

The one she'd used when she'd been a boring old Arkham doctor.

It was a means to get his Bats excited for the party, to make him eager to attend, make him appreciate all his efforts for making this night truly one of a kind!

He giggled as he stepped back, admiring his handiwork and picturing the delight and surprise that would be on his dear Knight's face while he read what he wrote him.

* * *

_Hello there, Bats!_

_Consider this your official invitation to the party I am throwing! _

_Do try to not be late (a little late is fashionably okay!) as I have gone to an extraordinary amount of trouble to make this a very special night for the two of us!_

_Tootles, darling!_

_P.S. Enjoy this little love poem... I wrote it just for you!_

**Love is a little bit of Anarchy**

_Bam! Pow!_

So hungry to do it that you can taste it

Acidic sulfur burning the tongue, alive in your throat

Throbbing within your veins, causing you to choke

Twisting your moral lines, (feel them shiver and nearly snap?)

And making you desperate to kill this laughing Jack.

Love is a little bit of Anarchy (you're gonna think you're going a bit Batty!)

It's a black dose of reality (We are gonna fight!)

It's a little bit of insanity (We are gonna bleed!)

It's a little bit extreme (You are gonna wonder if it's really all worth it!)

_Ompf! Ow!_

You open your mouth, a wordless snarl

Want to spit the taste of the Knave's poison out

But the laughter slithers through your veins, damning you

Almost turning you into what you fear becoming the most:

The pasty-faced monster that's been consumed by his rage.

Love is a little bit of Anarchy (you're gonna think you're going a bit Batty!)

It's a black dose of reality (We are gonna fight!)

It's a little bit of insanity (We are gonna bleed!)

It's a little bit extreme (And you are gonna wonder if it's really all worth it!)

* * *

He nodded.

It was brilliant.

Absolutely perfect!

He signed it with X's and O's-it wasn't like he needed to say the note was from him, right?

And then he giggled as he left the room, his high, keening laugh echoing off the asylum's walls and ricocheting back to the man who relentlessly pursued him.

* * *

He spotted the note the instant that his boots hit the tile floor. It was pinned, with a paperclip in the shape of a bat no less, to a poster that was sickeningly covered in red lipstick kisses. He knew that the note had been penned by the damned clown. That it could only have been written by that damned clown. Just as he knew exactly why the damned clown had chosen to leave his _love note_ here in this office.

Because he'd _planned_ for him to find the note here...

In the office of the woman that the clown had decided to make fall madly in love with him.

The woman he'd convinced to trade in a life as a promising young Psychiatrist for one full of nothing but chaos and crime, of humiliation and degradation, of love and lies.

The very woman that _he'd_ offered to help break free of the clown's manipulation and abuse hundreds of times in the past...

...and had each and every one of those offers coldly, ruthlessly rejected.

Because every time Batman had Harleen Quinzel at the point of reaching out to accept his aide, that damn clown did something to lure Harley Quinn right back into his trap of mad love.

_Just another of his mind games,_ he thought as he snatched the yellowed paper off the poster and read the words the madman had written to him. _Another reminder about how I have failed to protect someone from his psychotic depravity_. He frowned at the paper; annoyed more than he was anything else by this token of the Joker's _affection_. That it was merely another form of manipulation, another method of distraction, another means of keeping him occupied while Joker finalized what he really had planned for this evening's festivities, was crystal clear to him.

This whole night had been one carefully orchestrated game in fact. A game that he'd foolishly begun playing the moment he arrived at Gotham City Hall in order to apprehend the pasty-faced prankster. He should have realized that his gut instinct was right-that the Joker had given up way too easily. He should have guessed that that '_mysterious fire' _that had occurred at Blackgate Penitentiary was really nothing more than the Joker shifting around his game pieces, setting up the game board in his favor, and ensuring that he'd turn out the victor in tonight's contest.

Every move had been methodically calculated, deliberately concocted and sadistically enacted to ensure his compliancy and participation in the Joker's tournament. And he'd masterfully, wonderfully and ever so helpfully, fallen right into the damned clown's skeletal hands. His lips peeled back in a wordless snarl as he crushed the paper in his fist. It disgusted him, these games. He'd only been playing this type of game with that damned clown for what felt like forever.

A part of him-a deep and dark part that he did his best to keep buried, knew that the only way that the games would end was after one, or the both of them, was dead. Why he continued to allow that damned clown to drag him down into this perverse world of his, he did not know. He could have ended it long ago. He could have chosen to give the madman what it was that he wanted, what it was that he _deserved_.

But no...

He had to be the self-righteous Knight...

He had to be the moralistic Man..

He had to be the damn Saint.

And his family and his friends were the ones who'd suffered for it. Images rose in his mind to torment and torture him, to remind him of just a few of the things that that damned clown had done to him and his family:

Dick, bleeding from where he had been shot in the chest...

Barbara, paralyzed from where a bullet grazed her spinal cord...

Tim, leg mangled after being blown off the roof of a three-story building...

Jim, arm heavily bandaged as he stands at his wife's gravesite...

And the final image...

The one that he could not...

...that he would not _ever_ be able to forget:

Jason, his body little more than a tangled, broken mess after the Joker's vicious and brutal assault upon him.

That night was the one that would live forever in his mind. Because it was his fault that his son had been murdered. Just as it was his fault for not recognizing that what Jason had needed the most was a father, and not a partner. Of course, he had not listened to his gut that night either. He had ignored that parental voice whispering to him about taking the boy with him. And his son had paid the price for his mistake. Repressed grief added to fury, a raging flood of anger and hate that simmered deep in his belly like molten lava. He'd failed Jason that night, left him alone and in the hands of a monster. A madman who'd taken a crowbar to him for no reason other than because he'd "always wanted to."

The rage erupted from him like lava from a volcano, and he directed the magma flow at the menagerie of items that littered the top of the desk. In one smooth flick of his arm he swept the pictures, the newspaper and magazine clippings and the books off the scarred surface. And felt only a moderate satisfaction while he watched them all rain down onto the tile like hot ash.

_Love is a little bit of anarchy, Joker_? he thought savagely. _Well, you're about to get a big dose of it_.

Fed by his torment, and wrapped in the glove of his personalized hell, he resumed his hunt for the psychotic madman that had caused so much pain, so much misery, and so much death.


	4. Gunpowder and Fear Gas

Batman felt the needles prick through the frayed material covering his arm. The reaction was instant, the poison intermingling with the other doses of toxin he'd already received that night. His brain exploded as every fear, every nightmare, every horrible scene he'd encountered over the course of his career flooded into him. All the demons he fought, that he only barely held at bay, all the unsettled ghosts he'd yet to lay to rest, all the traumas he'd never healed from—all of them slammed into him one after another. A kaleidoscope of memories and images. A merry-go-round of pain. And all for him.

"You've ingested enough toxins to drive ten men insane!" Scarecrow exclaimed.

He released Crane and stumbled back, his hands clutching his head as he bit back the scream that wanted to erupt from his throat. The doctor studied the dark figure opposite him; his breath coming in sharp, staccato rasps. Finally, he managed to gasp, "_What are you_?!" before he turned to flee down the passageway.

Batman tried to follow, he desperately wanted to give chase, but it felt like he was being held in place by invisible hands.

"Poor Batman… " Crane called from the end of the passageway. "You're just as crazy as the rest of us."

He let out a tiny hiss of sound, his only physical manifestation of the pain tearing its way through his mind. Someone grabbed him, turned him around, wrapping arms that felt like tentacles about him and holding tight. He struggled to get free, but they just tightened their hold upon him.

"It's okay Bruce," they said in a voice that was soft as a midsummer's rain. "I've got you. You're safe."

Hearing that voice was enough to shatter the toxins hold over him. Batman angled his head to look down at the figure wrapped around him like a vine. And seeing those verdant eyes glowing up at him with worry, and feeling the solid reality of her body pressed against his slammed the doors on the fear still coursing through him. Her name was Fenix and she was the niece of Jim Gordon, cousin of Oracle, best friend of both Nightwing and Red Robin, confidante of Robin, partner of the Red Hood. And like a daughter to him. It was that paternal feeling that had him fold her into his arms and rasp;

"I thought I told you to stay in the Cave?"

She ignored that growl; knew it to just be his way of regaining control.

"You did tell me to stay in the Cave," she said quietly. "But Hood, Robin and I took a vote on whether I should obey or not," her lips curved, impishly. "And _you_ lost."

That both of his sons had chosen to support her in contravening his order was not that surprising to him. Jason and Damian had formed individual and unique bonds with her during the months that he'd been lost in Darkseid's _Omega Sanction_. And those bonds had only grown deeper in the six months since her physical return home. But where they'd had the chance of enjoying her being in their everyday lives, he was just beginning to get used to having her back in his. And where they were comfortable with her being a part of their professional lives, saw her as one of the team and relied on her as such, he was still coming to grips with her being a part of that life.

He freely admitted that he wasn't used to seeing her in a full body suit. Or seeing those eyes ringed by that thin black mask. Nor had he quite worked his way around to accepting that she could boldly wade into a group of thugs and take them down without a moment's hesitation, and with only a minimal amount of complication. But he was slowly coming around to accepting that she was the Fenix. _Slowly_. He'd already come around to the fact that just like Oracle, the Fenix was a well-trained, highly-skilled and extremely capable crime fighter.

And she should be all those things, he realized as he rest his cheek against the top of her head. He'd been the one to teach her a great many of those skills that she possessed. Skills that she had definitely honed during the course of her partnerships with both Nightwing and Red Robin and refined on her five year trip abroad. She had an aggressive fighting style that was quite similar to his ground and pound approach. But where he was built for brute strength and bone-crushing force, she combined speed with agility to flavor her in-your-face approach.

_But I'm just not ready to let this little birdie fly solo, _he thought_. Not anymore than I am ready to allow Robin to fly solo._

And he knew that that was not logical. He'd told himself dozens of times since discovering that Raya Kean and Fenix was the same woman that he was being irrational, that his concerns were unfounded and that he was being more protective of her than her own uncle. But he couldn't help how he felt. He had already lost this little imp once. He feared losing her again. _Permanently this time_.

"What are you doing here?" he rasped.

"Your Batsuit was tossing off some extreme spikes in respiratory and heart rate. Spikes that I know coincide with our natural fight-or-flight response to stress or fear. And since I know that you tend to handle stress _oh so well_..." she trailed off, smiled.

"You knew that I must have had some type of encounter with Crane."

She nodded and held up a syringe that was filled with a milky white substance that he recognized instantly as his fear antidote.

"Be why I decided to bring you this," she said. "As indomitable as I know that your will is, and as much as you have inoculated yourself against the majority of Crane's Fear toxins, prolonged exposure to his gas could still cause even _you_ harm. And for the record..."

He let her trail on, only paying minimal attention to the lecture she was giving. Because his mind was fixated upon something else. The answer that he'd been trying to figure out, the solution that'd been eluding him these last few months, finally came to him. He knew just what role it was that she served to fill.

What role she'd decided to fill.

A role which was only suited for her to fill.

And which was the most perfect roll for her, in fact.

Because where he was the hammer, Nightwing the protector, Red Robin the detective, Robin the warrior, Red Hood the street fighter, and Oracle the database? Fenix was the doctor. She was the one who tended to their physical and corporeal bodies. Who nurtured their bodies and kept them at their optimal best. And was the one who healed those bodies when they became broken. And wasn't that the role she'd chosen as her own? he silently asked. Wasn't that the mantle she was adopting long before her father nearly killed Dick and sent her on a five year trip around the world? Still, she'd contramanded his directive by coming here and needed to learn that when he gave her an order, she needed to follow it. He looked down into her upturned face.

"You are to leave after you give me the fear antidote."

She rolled her eyes, said; "As much as I would _love_ to argue with you about allowing me to stay and help you put that goddamn clown back where he belongs," she made a face. "Jas has me under strict orders to have my ass back at the entrance of the Intensive Treatment building in exactly twenty minutes of finding you. Or else all sorts of hell will break loose around here."

"You came here with Jason?"

His shock must have shown on his face. Because after administering the antidote, she stretched up on her tiptoes and laced her arms around his neck. It was a gesture full of warmth and affection. And which worked to soothe away any lingering hurt, fatigue and anger that he was feeling.

"That's right Bruce," she teased. "I'm here with your darker, angrier, more volatile and morally ambiguous, gun-toting, C4 wielding son."

_And isn't that just a tiny bit ironic_, he thought as he stroked a hand over her hair. _The two children that I lost? Are the two children who ended up finding each other._

Robin pushing the Red Hood and Fenix into working as partners had not made much sense to him. Not at first. The differences between Raya Kean and Jason Todd were about as momumental as those between Talia and himself. But now he realized that his youngest son had seen that there was something that the two superheroes were missing from their lives. And because he cared for the both of them, wanted to see them both happy, he'd pushed them towards each other.

Which was why Bruce knew that his son would more than happily carry out his vitriolic attack if Raya did not return to the docks in the time period he'd specified. He felt his lips twitch at that. He admitted that he was overprotective of Raya. And had a reason to be. But Jason's reasons for wanting to protect her, to keep her safe were not governed by _fatherly_ affection and concern. And irrationality was almost as synonymous with the Red Hood as anachronistic displays of violence were to the Joker.

"You'd better hurry." His breath stirred the hair at her temple. "You only have three minutes to get down to the front entrance before Jason begins tearing the Asylum grounds apart in order to find you."

She sighed as she stepped back.

"Jason tearing the island apart might be the only way of stopping the Joker from unleashing whatever it is that he has planned, Bruce."

"I'll stop the Joker," he assured her. "You just stop Jason from destroying the island."

"Patience," she huffed as she turned to leave. "I'm gonna teach that man _patience_. So help me if I _don't_."

"Just love him, Raya," he told her quietly. "That's what he's always needed. What he's always wanted."

"He needs _you_ to love him, Bruce. _You're_ his father."

Bruce sighed, once. Heavily. "He hasn't wanted or needed me in a long time."

She looked over her shoulder at him, a wealth of knowledge in her eyes for one who was so young.

"Jason Todd might act like he's all grown up and doesn't need or want you or your love. But he does. Desperately so in fact." Her lips curved. "Why do you think that he's been doing everything in his power to get your attention these last few years? It's not only because he wants his dad to pay attention to him, but because he has a need to prove himself worthy of your love."

And with that parting statement hanging upon the stale air, she turned and disappeared into the vent she'd used to access the Cell Block Transfer. Bruce stood there for another minute, silently contemplative. _It's a helluva thing to have someone so much younger than you point out what you should have been able to have seen for yourself_, he thought with a slight shake of his head. But, time was ticking and the Joker was still free to wreck mayhem and havoc on the asylum. He slowly began making his way towards the exit. But as he went he vowed that he was going to speak with Jason when he got back to the cave. There was one thing that he wanted to make abundantly clear to his son: that he had no need to prove himself worthy of his love.

He loved him no matter what.

* * *

After leaving Batman in the Cell Block Transfer area, Raya made her way back into Secure Transit. She exited her vent and began making her way towards the only elevator that was still operational. She hit the button to open the doors. Someone appeared in the open doorway, wearing frayed and pieced together brown clothing and a burlap gas mask.

_Crane?_

"Good evening my dear," he said politely.

"What are you doing here, Crane?"

"Why, I was waiting for you, of course." He said cheerily. "I have something I want to show you."

"Oh," she angled her head to look at him, her gaze riddled with suspicion and distrust. "And just what is it that you want to _show_ me?"

He giggled, more a high pitched cackle than an actual laugh and reached toward her with the hand not covered by that Freddy Krueger-like glove. That Crane had not immediately injected her with a dose of that glowing yellow substance struck her as completely out of his character. She found herself not only wondering _why, _but also about _what_ it was that the man was up too.

"I want to show you the truly fascinating power of _fear._"

Raya didn't have time to react. A small puff of gas shot from his sleeve and hit her in the face. The back of her throat began to burn and she choked on a gasp. Her eyes began to water and she fingered the moisture away before looking up...

..._spiders boiled up and out of the mask's eyeholes, fell from that gaping black maw._

Raya jerked back, stifling a small shriek. But she found that her body was frozen, rooted to the spot upon which she stood. It was like invisible hands were holding her immobile, powerless as Fear's grand manipulator slid closer, ever closer. Crane cupped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and made her look at him.

... _spiders pouring from that mask, crawling along that skeletal arm_...

"Can't you feel it?" he crooned. "Can't you feel as it courses through your bloodstream? Flows along every neural synapse? Can't you feel the acceleration in your heart and respiratory rate, the way that every muscle has tensed in preparation for the bodies natural desire to flee from a potential threat?"

Gently, almost reverently, he swept his thumb over her flesh. It was the first time he'd ever been allowed close to her. The first time that he was able to reach out and physically touch the skin that, until now, he'd only been able to imagine would be soft as silk. That first touch had a sunburst explode in the middle of his chest. Tendrils of heat and light shot throughout every inch of his body, warming the regions coated in ice, and sending the manipulative and twisted fiend that was alive within him scurrying back to the deepest, darkest shadows of his mind. It was a heady sensation to a man who'd spent years feeling absolutely _nothing_.

"I have waited patiently for when I would finally have you alone," he stroked his fingers across her cheek, into her hair. "To be able to speak to you without the watchful eyes and ears of the Arkham staff observing us."

"I cannot imagine that there is anything that you need to say to me that you could not say in front of the staff."

"Oh, but there is," his voice dropped to a low, intimate whisper. "Considering that you have been quite adverse to all of my other attempts at wooing you..."

Raya wrenched her head away.

"And does your version of _wooing _involve dosing me with Fear gas?"

"Come now, Dr. Kean," he chided. "It was but a small, concentrated dose that was designed to simulate the physiological manifestation of fear." Only internally did he qualify that there was only enough of the chemicals compound in the dose to show her the power to be found in manipulating and controlling fear. He would never, of course, administer a full dose of his serum to her. "It was the level of dosage that one would receive in a clinical setting. Harmless really."

He knew who she was, she realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Somehow, _somehow, _Jonathan Crane had managed to deduce her identity as the Fenix.

"How?" she asked him. "How did you figure out that I am the Fenix?"

Crane pulled off his mask and said, in an adoring voice, "Why whom else could so splendidly incorporate two vastly different personalities into one person?" He quoted now. "_'Someone who takes on a dual identity through the adoption of a public and private persona finds themselves in an intricate position. The very nature of the vigilante is to avoid detection and they will do so at almost any cost. But they risk having the masked persona become their true persona while the non-dominant personality becomes the mask which they present to the world._'"

_He'd read her research article on vigilantism and the hero complex. _She didn't know whether she should be flattered or not. She gazed at him, silently contemplative. It was almost, he thought, hypnotic. The way that she looked at him, fully, directly, deeply. As if he was more than a monster, or common criminal. Her direct manner, her vast knowledge of psychological disorders and her keen intellect were what had intrigued him, initially. But he found himself now bewitched by her subtle elegance, her quiet pride and dignity. The dim light played over her skin like honey coating alabaster, in her eyes like gilt circling emerald.

It had surprised him to discover they had so many things in common. Books enjoyed, music appreciated, movies favorited. He'd spent a considerable amount of time learning what he could about her. He knew she'd been born here in Gotham, grew up in a house ruled by violence, an only child like himself. Her parents had given the majority of her day-to-day care into the hands of tutors and nannies. Her grandfather, the renowned Neuropsychiatrist Matthew Berkeley Sr., had taken her in his lab and begun schooling her in cognitive disorders when she was ten. Her mother had been murdered when she was thirteen, and she'd gone to live with her uncle. She'd gone to the University of California and earned degrees in psychology, criminology and literature. She'd never married, had no children. Considering her upbringing, he did not find that surprising.

"What is it you are after here, Crane?" she was saying.

"I," he simpered. "But wish to offer you a most illustrious position."

Raya ignored the clutch in her belly and concentrated on remaining calm.

"I have told you that I will not take over as your doctor."

"I do not desire your services as my doctor. I never did in fact."

She swallowed around the hard lump in her throat. "What is it that you want then? What have the months of requests been about, if not to have me become your doctor?"

"Why," Crane leaned in close, close enough that he could smell the heady, exotic scent of jasmine and start to drown in it. "I want you to become my Mistress of Fear. And to stand at my side as we overtake the city of Gotham and show them that at the end of fear, is _oblivion_."

Raya prayed she was mistaken. That this was nothing but a hallucinogenic reaction to the toxin he'd sprayed in her face. But he reached out, and those long, delicate fingers brushed her cheek, slid around to the back of her neck. She went cold to the marrow.

"Never," she whispered. "I will _never _become your Mistress of Fear. Nor will I, or Batman, allow you to drown this city in terror."

"Oh," Crane's smile deepened into something that was both sly and child-like. And his fingers slid to her chin, cupped it. "But I disagree."

A voice growled from the shadows, "Get your hands off her, you sick, twisted freak."

Crane looked up and saw a masked figure crouched atop a metal beam. The tan motorcycle jacket, black body armor and thin red mask told him who this was. Not that it really mattered. He had positioned two members of Joker's crew around the Transit area. Red Hood or Batman, the thugs weren't going to be choosy about who they got to beat up.

"Get him!" He commanded.

The first henchman charged. And was quickly dumped down the broken elevator shaft. A black figure swooped from the shadows and slammed into the second henchman, dragging him across the concrete floor. There was a muffled blow and Crane realized he was alone. Except for his beloved. He could use the Fenix as an insurance policy. Negotiate his exit. Give her another concentrated dose of the gas, then-

No.

He was not about to treat _his _Mistress as the clown treated that idiot Quinn woman. He'd have to run. Crane took Raya's hand-she tried to snatch it back from him, but he didn't let go. It shocked her that there was such strength in those long, graceful dactyls. But the psychologist inside her reminded her about how people with multiple personalities could possess surprising strength when the more dominant personality was in control. Crane sketched her a courtly bow, and smiled a most charming smile. She heard a curse and knew that Hood was literally seeing red at that moment. She was going to have a lot of explaining to do once they returned to the cave. But it was not like she'd invited Crane's courtship.

"Must run, my dear." He lifted her hand. "It has indeed been a pleasure," he purred. Slowly, deliberately, he brushed her knuckles with his lips-and felt the shiver of awareness that snaked through her, the shiver she could not hide. With a final, taunting smile at his two nemesis', he nimbly leapt into the elevator and punched the down button. His shrill, chilling laugh echoed in the chamber long after he disappeared.


End file.
